


Inheritance

by devilcode



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Aegaeon makes kids cry, Gen, Pre-Canon, accidentally a father's day fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 10:27:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19249321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilcode/pseuds/devilcode
Summary: A ten-year-old's thoughts on a most celebrated day.Or: the day that Mòrag always knew would come.





	Inheritance

**Author's Note:**

> I think about Mòrag's childhood a lot. 
> 
> I wrote most of this listening to Desolation and Friendship on loop, because I'm like that.

Mor Ardain inspired awe. Everything projected strength: the Titan's towering, imposing silhouette; Alba Cavanich's sleepless lights and industry; crowds teeming with a bustling people as resilient as the aged stone decorating its Titan.

What the Empire did not inspire was a sense of peace—not in its ecology, not in its aesthetics, not in its weary, scarred Titan, and not in its culture. _We are a people of metal and fire and thunder,_ Mòrag recalled from one her history texts, that particular author dancing the line between praise and criticism. Unyielding, but inflexible. Bold, but destructive. Loud, and...

Well, loud. Even from the top of Hardhaigh's battlements, the wind whipping around her, she could hear the distant din from the capital more clearly than she expected. The sun had dipped beneath the horizon an hour ago, but the celebration showed no signs of slowing. Scattered, mismatched songs rose up through the wind with the occasional pop of fireworks, as did drunken cheers. She picked out an instrument, every now and then, in the slightly-quieter lulls. A carefully monitored bonfire burned in the plaza, as did a few smaller fires where they safely could in the street, and down at the port. Banners of bright red strung themselves between the dull buildings, some decorated with white or yellow accents—an especially extravagant one sponsored by some senator, all gold-trimmed ruby silk and bearing the crest of the Empire, hung in the Central Plaza.

A festival only befitting the birth of Mor Ardain's heir.

Mòrag knew this day was a possibility—nay, _likely_. The birthright was never truly hers; the lukewarm reception of her adoption, in vivid contrast to the celebration below, would've drove that point home had she not already come to terms with it. She wasn't even entirely sure if she liked the idea of being Empress. She'd seen how busy it kept Father, after all, and how the weight of war clawed worried creases into his face. But, still... it had been _her_ idea to dislike, for a time—one Father had entrusted to her in full. His belief had been reason enough to strive for it.

Even as ambivalent to the birthright as she had been, Mòrag had thought she'd feel _something_ when this day came. As she peered down into the flicking lights and revelry of the capital, there was no inspired awe. No second-hand strength. No disappointment, nor grief.

Just... loss.

An absence. Something was gone; not in a painful way, but not in a liberating way, either. Envy wasn't the right word for it. Watching the birthday celebration of Niall Ardanach only felt remarkably... dull.

...Maybe a little lonely.

Steady footsteps thudded in her direction, and she heard the pair of Carraig Special Guards keeping faithful vigilance over her shuffle back a several peds. Those sure footsteps came to a stop nearby.

“You ought not to climb the battlements, Mòrag. It would be tragic if you fell,” rumbled a rich voice. _Not as tragic as it would've been a week ago_ , she mused without bitterness, but obediently eased herself back to the floor with a quiet sigh. She could hardly see the top of the plaza over the edge of the parapet at her height—not without childishly standing on her toes, at any rate. Surprisingly slender gloved fingers settled atop her head. “What has you up here? It's a cold night.”

“They're celebrating.”

“Mm,” Emperor Raghnall hummed, as if it had been a profound statement. “So they are. If you really wanted, I could take you down there.”

Mòrag considered it. Maybe it would feel differently up close, immersed in the joy and noise. ...No; Father should stay here—near Niall, and near Mother. Mother's health had been poor beforehand, with some kind of worsening affliction of the lungs caused by Mor Ardain's polluted air, and carrying Niall seemed to have made her weaker. Besides, Mòrag wasn't so certain how welcome she'd be, down there in a celebration explicitly not hers. She shook her head, and those gloved fingers gently stroked her hair. The rare display of affection was comforting, even if Mòrag wasn't upset—she wasn't. There was no reason to be upset by the traditional succession of her people. It was simply how things were. And besides, it was a relief for her family, if the new heir was so well received.

She leaned into the touch regardless. “It's good that they're celebrating. That means no one will try to hurt Niall, doesn't it?”

Her father's hand stilled, and he breathed a leaden sigh. “Mòrag.”

She glanced up at him. The Emperor's weary face, despite its sharp angles and worrying gauntness—a result of his own prolonged illness—still somehow managed to project certainty and strength. It reminded her of the Titan. Mòrag often wondered how someone could look so frail and unbreakable at the same time.

There was an incredible sadness to his expression, and Mòrag felt a flash of guilt for provoking it. His hand moved to lift her chin, the Emperor's thumb brushing along the fading scar under the corner of her jaw. It was nearly gone after four years; the Imperial physician said it'd be near invisible after a few more. That wasn't soon enough in her opinion. She hated that scar, and the heart-seizing terror it recalled to her mind.

“So, that is what this is about.” He curtly shushed her when Mòrag tried to protest. “I almost wish that fool were still alive, if only so I could have him executed a second time.” For an instant, an iron thread of anger ran beneath his even tone. Carefully, the tall man knelt, holding her gaze the entire way.

“Nothing is your fault, Mòrag. The only blame lies with the ill will of others, and my own carelessness.” Raghnall paused, curiously searching her face. Unsure of what to say, Mòrag closed her eyes. What was there to say? She'd heard those comforts before. They were true, but that logical belief did nothing to dispel her lingering unease, or nightmares of venom-laced words and edged steel against her neck. Her father drew her into a hug, and she couldn't help resting her head against his shoulder; he was always warm. Feverish, even—another sign of his continued illness, the doctors said. “Nothing more will happen to you, or befall Niall, as long as I draw breath. I swear.” 

More distant pops, across the bridge, and cheers. The fireworks were a sharp reminder that even at a day old, everyone already adored the Emperor's son. “...Maybe nothing will, now that you have Ni—“

“Now that _we_ have Niall,” her father interrupted, his tone stern and permitting no leeway for argument, “nothing changes.” Emperor Raghnall sighed again, holding her tighter. “You are my daughter. The right to the throne may be Niall's from this day forward, but I will not deprive you of anything that would be afforded to him. You have my word.”

“I can... continue my studies?”

“Of course. And when you're old enough, the right to resonate with the Imperial Blades is still yours. I could never take that from you. And should the Senate try, I will trample them.” Her throat suddenly felt tight. It was childish, but Mòrag reached up to return the tight embrace, fingers grasping the fabric of his coat. When she held her silence, her father continued, voice low and sincere. 

“You are not being replaced, Mòrag, nor were you ever a placeholder. My brother's blood is my blood. I would upset the senate and nobility time and time again if it meant ensuring of one my kin was never alone.” It was better not to speak, now; even if she wasn't his heir anymore, an Emperor's daughter shouldn't sound like she's about to _cry._ Raghnall's grip loosened, and Mòrag's reluctantly did the same. His hands settled on her shoulders, holding her at arm's length. Mòrag blinked quickly to try and banish her gathering tears. If her father noticed, he thankfully didn't mention it.

“Study. Try to become a Driver. Learn and grow. I will protect you and Niall both, for as along as I can.” Raghnall smiled, and there was something about it that made Mòrag want to stand a little taller, and left a bright feeling in her chest. He always smiled like he had utter faith she could do anything. “And when I no longer can, that mantle will be yours to bear, as my oldest. Your brother will need you. Do you understand?”

The words _your brother_ carried a subtle emphasis. Her brother. Mòrag's gaze drifted back over the parapet to the raucous celebration, the bonfire's light glittering off metal roofs. They celebrated the coming of Mor Ardain's proper heir, and consequently, the loss of her birthright. But... looking over the decorated capital didn't feel quite so hollow, this time. _Her_ brother. Family. When she looked back to her father, she found patience. Mòrag nodded.

Raghnall's gentle smile bloomed further with approval. “Good. Now, don't you think it's time you met your little brother? The doctors should be done with him.” The flash of panic must have shown on her face, because the Emperor waved a hand as he stood. “Oh, he's alright. He is a little early, and quite small, but don't fear. They're only being cautious, I'm sure.”

He turned, starting towards the palace interior. Mòrag took a deep breath, wiping at her eyes once her father had his back to her to make sure they were dry. She had a brother—a little brother. It wouldn't do to look like she had been upset when she first meets him. Or for anyone else to see it, for that matter. Mòrag hurried to catch up to Emperor Raghnall's longer stride once she was steady again, her Carraig shadows silently falling into step with her.

“...Thank you, Father.” Much to Mòrag's embarrassment, her voice sounded thick and rough at the edges, but Raghnall only kept his smile forward.

“What for?” He answered as if he hadn't heard it, and it was Mòrag's turn to smile, her young pride grateful. Father always had a quiet understanding of these things. “Perhaps I should be thanking you.” Emperor Raghnall glanced at her, briefly, humor sparkling in his tired eyes. “The poor boy wailed terribly when Aegaeon held him. Another youthful face will be a welcome sight for your brother, I think.”

“...I won't let anyone hurt him, either, Father.” At least her voice was steady this time.

“Mm? Aegaeon didn't...” Raghnall trailed off when he looked her way. Mòrag hoped she looked as determined as she felt; she held her back straight, gaze forward, and shoulders square, just how Father walked. Even if she hadn't met Niall yet, even if she and her brother ended up not liking each other, her mind was made up. Niall should never have to suffer a knife to his throat. 

No one should.

Mòrag couldn't see his expression, staring ahead purposefully as she was, but when her father's hand settled approvingly on her shoulder, Mòrag felt certain things from here on out would turn out fine. Different, perhaps, but just as well. Maybe she didn't need to be responsible for an entire people.

Family was sufficient for now.


End file.
